


take it easy on my heart

by donutcats



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Karen patches Frank up, Sharing a Bed, Stitches, matt is there for a short time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 14:11:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11511045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutcats/pseuds/donutcats
Summary: she fishes out a needle, some thread, and finally gets it through the eye on the fourth try. She's getting better at this. "Ready?" She's not sure if she's asking him or herself."I don't have any other choice." Frank answers for them both anyways, whether he's aware of it or not. His hand settles on her thigh, fingers resting against the place where the edge of her shorts meet her skin.





	take it easy on my heart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get better at writing Karen and Frank's voices, hopefully this doesn't feel too ooc at times. I like the feel of this fic in general though, I'm proud of it, so I really hope you enjoy it too <3 comments are always appreciated to tell me what's good and what can be improved so don't hesitate

The apartment door bangs open, and Karen is already making a beeline for the box of advanced first aid she keeps in the kitchen, tucked between the wall and the toaster. Turning around, she lunges forward, stopping Matt from practically dumping Frank on the nearest available surface. "Wait, not on the couch. There's still a blood stain from before-"  
  
" _Before?_ " Matt asks, voice straining just a bit as he quickly hauls Frank back up, turning an aborted movement into readjusting his hold on the bleeding body.  
  
Karen just nods, absently, shucking off her coat. "Put him in the bathroom. He should be able to stand on his own if you prop him against the sink. I'll be right there." The homemade box she put together for times like this pops open, and she notes she'll have to stock up on a few things next time she's at the store. It started as a shoebox, with things haphazardly thrown into it when she realized a regular first aid wasn't equipped for emergencies that go by the name _Frank Castle_. For when Frank first started darkening her doorstep. Asking without actually asking for help.  
  
Her shoes are the next to go, kicked off into some corner she'll find later. Next, her skirt and stockings in one go, and then her blouse, making it's way past the laundry pile and straight into the trash. Blood stains and white fabric just don't mix. Ever. She grabs for a tshirt, aware of the low conversation happening in her bathroom, the mostly Matt sided conversation. The shirt is a dark red, one she picked ages ago and deemed the honorary Budget Bathroom ER Shirt.  
  
With the box of medical supplies in one hand, which has upgraded from the shoebox, and a pair of comfortable shorts in the other, she sweeps herself into the already small bathroom, made smaller by two large men and the tense atmosphere. The box clatters against the closed toilet seat, and she tries not to lean on frank as she tugs her pants on, but even bloody and bruised he still reaches out a hand to steady her.

She should probably feel more modest, should care more about being half dressed in front of two men. One of which she used to have a thing with, and another that- she doesn’t know what category Frank belongs in but it feels somewhere important. If it was any other time, she probably would feel the need to get dressed far away from their eyes, but right now she can’t have the luxury of privacy, of taking her time to pull clothes on behind closed doors. Right now, she’s trying to hurry and any thoughts of modesty are thrown out the small bathroom window.

Frank looks, well the only word that can encompass the way one eye is already swelling shut, and the cuts above his brow and cheekbone are crusting over is; Terrible. By the way he's relying heavily on the sink to keep him up, Karen guesses his body isn't any better. She might still be a bit bitter at Matt for not telling her about his career moonlighting as the devil of hell's kitchen, but she has to admit that if he hadn't shown up when he did, they may as well both be dead right now.  
  
_That's the last time I trust a contact that wants to meet at the docks around midnight._  
  
"I got it from here, Matt." Karen nods at him, as she makes her way to stand directly behind Frank. She watches him leave the bathroom, but he doesn't leave the apartment like she was expecting. He perches himself on the edge of her bed, gaze locked and unseeing somewhere on the floor, but Matt keeps his head cocked the slightest. Listening. Feeling. A prickle of irritation bubbles up, that he's probably staying because he doesn't trust Frank around her. She bites her tongue, head snapping back to Frank. "This is going to hurt."  
  
Frank's shoulders tense as she lays both hands on his back, gently. When she drops them further, to the hem, there's another spark of tension, and they both know he's bracing himself. "Yeah, I know."  
  
And then her fingers slip under his shirt, her hands slowly making their way upwards, carefully peeling away the drying fabric from his back. It sticks in some places, the sound of material tearing away from clotting blood and sliced flesh causes her breath to hitch in her throat, every time.

Finally, her finger tips curl around his shoulders up near the junction of his neck, smooth down until they hit the seams of the sleeves. Karen removes her hands, avoiding as best she can any repeats of having to feel each cut and scrape and the slip slide of blood. "Turn around." She backs up an inch as she says it, as he's already doing just that. This is always the hardest. Knowing that he's looking at her as she mirrors her movements from before, as she slowly and decisively runs her hands up his chest. Fingers reach his collarbone, peak out from the collar of his shirt, and she finally looks him in the eye.  
  
Frank Castle has the ability to look at you, and make you feel like you're stripped bare. He looks at Karen and she knows, with the kind of certainty you get when you look at the sky, at the whorl of grey clouds and heavy air and you know it's about to rain, she knows that he _sees_ her. Sees every thing about her and takes it all in. Sees past all of the walls she's put up, and understands without ever having to talk about it. It's a talent, Karen thinks.  
  
"Arms up." She taps at his sternum, and he obeys, allowing her to take off his shirt in one smooth motion. "Can you stand, or do you want the tub?" Karen takes this moment to physically tear her eyes away from him, turning to ball up his ruined shirt and stuff it into the small trashcan beside the sink.  
  
"Tub?" It's the first time Matt has spoken in what feels like forever, and it startles her a bit. She might have almost forgotten Matt was there. Almost.  
  
"It’s easier to rinse the tub down, instead of scrubbing at the floor." There's a hair tie laying on the back of the toilet, which she takes as the distraction it is, tying up her hair quickly instead of watching Matt frown in displeasure, or watching as Frank kicks out of his jeans, walks past her to fit himself in the small tub.

Sometimes, Karen forgets how large Frank is. Just, large in general. His shoulders are broad and his chest is wide and his _hands_. But then, times like this, in only his boxer briefs, knees bent to fit into a bathtub. Well, she has to remind herself these moments are never the right times to giggle.  
  
Karen takes a moment to debate if she wants the first aid box on the tub ledge, before she decides to just keep it on the closed toilet but move it a bit closer, and then she's crawling into the empty bath with Frank. She practically straddles his lap, and she catches Matt shifting in the main room, frown still in place.  
  
Matt’s the one that made it oh so clear that he never had time in his life for her, that he viewed her as something that needed protection- still does if he wants to be honest. Yet, he continues to frown at her life decisions, as if he has any right to be upset if she wants to take any sort of bath with Frank-  
  
And that is _not_ a thought she should be having currently.  
  
Mentally giving herself a shake, she roots around in the first aid box, grabbing things to disinfect the wound as best she can, chewing at her lip as Frank flinches the slightest. Then, she fishes out a needle, some thread, and finally gets it through the eye on the fourth try. She's getting better at this. "Ready?" She's not sure if she's asking him or herself.  
  
"I don't have any other choice." Frank answers for them both anyways, whether he's aware of it or not. His hand settles on her thigh, fingers resting against the place where the edge of her shorts meet her skin.

Karen has to close her eyes for a second, has to make the conscious decision to breathe as she feels the warmth of his skin on hers. It trips up her heart, causes it to skip and catch in her chest. When she opens her eyes, Frank is looking right back. Gaze level, unwavering, a fingertip idly swiping along the edge of her shorts.

Leaning forward, she starts with a nasty gash on his shoulder, taking a deep breath and sliding the needle into his skin. The first thread is always the hardest, at least in Karen's opinion. She once needed stitches when she was eight from falling out of a tree she decided to climb. The entire process wasn't fun at all, but the most painful part was the very first time the needle went through. It felt like a shock to her system, like every stitch after that hurt just a fraction less.  
  
"You gonna sit there all night and watch, Red?" Frank speaks up, jolting her out of the quiet lull the apartment had faded into. The needle snags as her hand jerks, making Frank wince, but she only fleetingly thinks of apologizing. After all, it was sort of his fault. She settles with glaring at him. He looks back, then turns his head towards the open door.  
  
Matt huffs in something that doesn't quite reach amusement. "Poor choice of wording, Frank."  
  
"I know what I said." The words come from somewhere deep in his chest, like a bag of gravel rolled around and created the pitch of his voice.  
  
"Can't the two of you go five minutes without bickering?" Karen cuts in, lips pressing together as she finishes off a line of stitches. She's suddenly glad her grandmother insisted on embroidery classes. Sure, she only went for a handful of weeks, but still.  
  
Frank grunts in response, the fingers on her thigh twitching.  
  
A few seconds tick by before Matt says anything, and she can hear the small smile in his voice as she disinfects the next deep wound that needs to be threaded back together.  
  
"The answer is yes, by the way. Or, at least until you're all patched up. I'll sit here while you're being a good patient, and keep watch in case any of those guys followed Karen home."  
  
"I can take care of myself." She can't help but snap.  
  
Matt has the decency to turn his head, face falling neutral. "It would be better for everyone if you focus on playing doctor instead of watch dog. I have this, don't worry."

Karen huffs, presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth to stop herself from saying something she’ll regret. Instead, she shares a look with Frank, and then she’s finishing off the second set of stitches. There’s a cut on his stomach, above his bellybutton, and while it’s not as deep as the others she thinks it would be better safe than sorry.

“I think I should put a few stitches in this one,” she says, tapping at the taut skin of his stomach and catching his attention. Karen takes care not to touch the cut directly, but she noticed the way he was glaring out into the open space of her apartment, and she knew the slight sting would snap him back to this moment. “But, I can’t really get at it like this. Your skin is a bit bunched up.” Poking at a vague roll of skin, she smiles to show she’s trying not to be a complete downer.

It works, what with the way the corner of Frank’s lip ticks up, and he’s looking away as he lets out an amused huff. “Need me to stand up?”

Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to stand long enough for her to stitch, and not wanting him to get the bed grimy and bloody, Karen makes him scoot himself down in the tub a bit. Just enough to smooth the skin around his stomach out. The way he has to move causes the back of her arms to rest on the front of his thighs. She’s almost completely hovering over him now, back curled, head bowed over his body. It’s not the most comfortable position, but she knows logically it’s easier than trying to move him.

He reaches out, settling a hand into her hair, which is falling out of its haphazard ponytail, and Karen wonders if it’s to steady either of them. Or if he just _wants_ to.

There’s something about the way he touches her. It’s different to the way other guy’s have touched her. Different to how Matt touched her. She always had the vague feeling of being handled like a china plate. Like there was a fear of her breaking. There is a sureness, with Frank Castle. With the way his hands anchor her down. There’s a reminder there, in the press of his fingers, that she is not crystalline. She is not porcelain, not anymore. If there is a carefulness to his touch, it’s the type that reminds her of the way one would hold a sword. Always conscious, but confident.

Something presses into the space between her eyebrows, and it’s then she realizes she was caught up in her own head. Blinking, she realizes it’s Frank’s thumb, now lightly sweeping along the arch of her brow. “Ma’am?”

Mumbling an apology, Karen ducks her head, ignoring the heat on her face and getting to work on the stitches she had planned. It takes only about three stitches for the cut on his stomach, less than she imagined. Frank’s thumb traces simple patterns on her forehead the whole time.

Finally, she straightens her back, practically leaning fully against his folded legs behind her. Frank’s hand shifts before he’s removing his hand from where it was buried in her hair, causing a chunk of it to follow and fall out of her ponytail.

There’s this moment, this charged moment where Karen swears Frank starts to reach forward, to tuck the hair behind her ear, but then the bed squeaks and the moment is shattered. Matt stands up, and for another second Karen thinks he’s going to come into the bathroom, he’s going to say something. But he tilts his head instead, attention drawn to her window.

“I have to go. I think I know where they are. Unless,” Matt stops himself from turning towards the window, “you need help?” His expression looks painfully neutral, lips pressed together. Karen tells him that he can go, do whatever needs doing. “Just be careful.”

“I always am.” She tries for a joke, but Matt then he’s shaking his head just barely, and they both know that’s a lie.

The feeling of her heart pulled taut between her ribs as Frank reaches for her has been shattered, swept away with the red of Daredevil through her window. She’s left with helping a man that’s easily twice her weight out of a bathtub, and forcing him to lie down on the bed and rest, insisting that he stay the night.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, the soft tune of Karen humming fills the air in the apartment. The window is left open, letting the late summer creep it’s way in. All of the clothing that’s salvageable gets tossed into the hamper, or as close to it as Karen can manage as she finally crashes from the adrenaline, feeling exhaustion cling to her bones. She thinks about changing her shirt, which true to its function has a few spots of blood on it that are barely visible, but after deliberating over it as she carefully took the time to put everything back into her first aid box, Karen decides she can’t be bothered to change.

“Still don’t get why you’re refusin’ to let me go back to my place, but the least I can do is take the couch.” Frank speaks up, laying in the middle of her bed, pillows carefully piled into the corner against the wall and far away from him.

Karen shakes her head, moving her keys to their designated bowl by the door. “You were stabbed, Frank. You needed stitches, and I know you’ve had worse but I can’t just let you walk out knowing how hurt you are. Plus, I think you deserve the bed, from you know. Getting stabbed.”

All she gets in reply is a grunt, and they slip back into a comfortable silence. After shutting off the light in the kitchen, Karen makes her way over to the bed, determined to reach over Frank to grab at least two of her pillows, when she feels a hand tug at the hem of her shorts. Looking down, Frank’s eyes are half lidded, one arm slung across his stomach, barely missing the stitches. He’s silent, fingers curled into the fabric of her shorts. “What?”

The hand moves from her shorts, arm stretching out, an invitation spelled in gold. “C’mon. We both know the couch ain’t no place to sleep, not when you have a perfectly good bed.” There’s a tilt to his lips, the same one from earlier in the tub. His words are slightly slurred, both sleep and the painkillers she made him take pulling at his voice.

The clock reads close to one in the morning, the green glow of the numbers tint the ends of her hair as she leans over him, one hand grasping at a pillow, one knee bracing herself on the mattress.  
  
She reminds herself to breathe. She doesn’t think. She’s sick of always thinking. Always wondering about how her actions and reactions. Planning things around all the possible consequences. Karen just wants to _exist_ , in this moment.  
  
There’s a street light slanting through the half closed blinds, and they both still have a little blood on them. This is a moment to soak in, to enjoy. To think about just this and nothing else beyond the next tick of the clock.  
  
Karen pulls her other knee up, leaving the pillow abandoned as she rocks back to settle on her legs. He’s still watching her, waiting to see what she does.  
  
She tucks herself into his side, careful of the bruising, and she feels his arm curl around her shoulder. His hand immediately finds that one loose lock of hair and pushes it behind her ear. As if he was on a mission from the second it broke free in the bathroom. It makes her smile, makes her press her nose into the dip of his collarbone.  
  
“Thanks. For everything.”  
  
It’s a whisper, a rumble of his chest, a breath into the still night air, mingling with the ambient noises of a city that refuses to sleep. Karen carefully snakes her hand across his stomach, tangling her fingers with his the second she finds them.  
  
This is a moment she’s taking for herself, the way his chest rises and falls beneath her cheek as he breathes in time with her heartbeat. It’s something the two of them have managed to carve out, a space that nothing can infringe on. Not tonight.


End file.
